Blinking, biting lip, repeating to myself what I read in your words,
the words themselves are dulled now, by repetition, by a shell, above all by
not wanting to feel.

You didn’t actually say it made you sick to think of me, not in those
exact words, you described how you were not sleeping, and when you did sleep,
how you woke sweating and sick with guilt at the thought of meeting me again.

You did not mean that I made you sick but that was all I could see in
your words.

We have stopped speaking before, I forget how many times

Actually, I never counted, I
could guess at four, it might be three or five

But, you never told me I made
you sick before. I always thought, the
ups and downs are part of us

Always we knew it was not really final, the wire was never snipped, it
remained inert between us until something or other made me pick it up again,
set off a thrumming and hope that you would feel the reverberation

You never said I made you sick before

Last night I heard a miaou, and I opened the door to nothing

Sometimes, still, the former
playmate of my departed cat still sits on the garden bench, but I suspect it is
more for the peace and the sunlight and the absence of wind rather than the companionship
of Seville's ghost

I wanted to make this time not final, I even pulled my punches when
telling you that we would not talk again

I said you were selfish but it was human to prioritise one’s own peace
of mind over another’s happiness

I did not comment on the size of your dick

You never said I made you sick before

ragged feral creature that I am, I keep on going back to that vomit
pile of grief.